My favorite photo of my parents shows them cutting into an elaborate wedding cake. I've heard stories and details about that day all my life. My mother was just 24 years old. Recently, she shared a new piece of information about her wedding: She weighed a mere 100 lbs. that day.

The last time I weighed 100 lbs., I was 11 years old.

My mother and father on their wedding day.

Courtesy of Nicki Salcedo

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When people meet my mom, they always comment that she doesn't look her age. They tell me that I'm lucky to come from such good genes. And I am. My mother is brilliant, beautiful, and independent. I hope I have something of her in me. It's always been hard to see it, though, because my mother is skinny, and I am fat.

I know the term "fat" makes some people uncomfortable; I could also say that I'm "working on my fitness goals." I don't use the word "skinny" as some slur, either. Some people work to be thin. For others, skinny comes naturally. My mother is thin. My sisters are thin. They got her genes, and I did not.

It's not for lack of trying. I enjoy being active, I like to exercise, and I'm a healthy eater. I look back on photos from my life, and I can just see how my body carries weight in a different way from my siblings. I've always been the chubby one. I resemble my mother in the face, but not below the neck.

My mother notices aloud when my weight shifts. She is direct with me, and tells me that I am beautiful but could stand to lose a few. She and my sisters commend me when I try to make healthy choices. They are very respectful of my efforts. But every holiday season, I dread my family asking for my sizes so they can buy me clothes. I'm around a size 12 now, while my mom and sisters are less than half that. A dark part of me wonders terrible things. Are they secretly happy that I'm fat?So I can be lesser? So they can be more beautiful?

A few years ago, I spent a day at the beach with my mother and my kids. She was wearing a gorgeous black swimsuit — a little sexy, but still totally classic. Her legs looked fit, with a line of definition on her thighs that showcased her strength. Her stomach was flat, a particular miracle considering she's had three children. My stomach was never that flat, even before I had kids. She's 32 years older than me, and her breasts are somehow perkier. It's just not right.

She looked like a beach goddess, while I was wearing cargo pants and a long-sleeved, linen shirt. Buried under all those clothes was a bathing suit no one would see. I've long held the habit of keeping my body hidden from everyone, especially my mother. I didn't want her to be disappointed in me.

Of course, I seemed to be the only one who wasn't enjoying the sunshine. My four kids ran back and forth to their beloved grandma, bringing her seashells and other gifts from the ocean. She looked so peaceful and confident. But I know it wasn't always this way for her, either.

My mother wasn't born with confidence. It was something she had to teach herself, and that pride came from exercise. She practices yoga and Pilates, she lifts weights, and she likes to walk while listening to music. I love these things about my mom, because we have them in common.

I will never be skinny, and I'm only just now figuring that out, and accepting it.​

That day on the beach, I decided to erase "fat" from my vocabulary. To be fair to us both, I also have to erase "skinny." I will never be skinny, and I'm only just now figuring that out, and accepting it.

I look at my beautiful children, and I hope they won't feel angst or pain about their shape. I hope they won't look at their bodies in comparison to mine. More than anything, I want to model the right things for my children: The importance of self-love, staying active, valuing family.

These are values I inherited from my mother. They are so much more important than her skinny genes.

This story is part of an ongoing series about confronting issues with our mothers. Check back every day this week for a new chapter leading up to Mother's Day.